Collected Works of Frances Trollope

by Frances Milton Trollope

  Never was a genuine emotion of sympathy more clearly demonstrated than in the manner of Count Adolphe’s taking leave of his late guest. He uttered no word of salutation to Rupert, no word of farewell to Gertrude; nay, he did not even shake hands with her, for he had a sort of instinctive conviction that she would have been quite unconscious of it, if he had. All he did in the way of leave-taking, was to spring out of the carriage the moment it stopped, take her in his arms just in time to prevent her throwing herself head foremost after him, then spring into it again, and drive off.

  It is a most certain fact, that during many hours of this homeward journey, the thoughts of Gertrude had been very much occupied by the idea of her reunion with her father; but now that she had reached her long-distant home, he was, for a short interval, utterly and entirely forgotten. The same little parlour which had sheltered her during the first agitating moments after her return from Paris, sheltered her again now. But oh! the blessed change! She no longer shrunk from seeking Rupert’s eye, from fear that she might find it averted; but, for a moment, the happiness of which overpaid (as she often declared in afterlife) all the misery she had endured, for one short dear moment, she rested her head upon his bosom, and whispered a word or two of seemingly very moving tenderness in his ear.

  But this one dear moment passed, she lingered not for the enjoyment of a second, but exclaimed, “My father! and your dear mother, too, Rupert?”

  “They are together,” he replied; “but I cannot, I dare not, lead you to them.”

  ‘“No, Rupert, no! It is far better that you should not. You are not by any means trustworthy at this moment. Fortunately, I know my way, and therefore do not need your assistance. Stay where you are, and lock yourself in, if you please, for you are not at all fit to be seen. Alas! my Rupert! you are a very poor specimen of a philosopher! But, if I mistake not, Shakspeare tells us somewhere, that there never yet was a philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently, so I suppose you must not lose caste for looking so very little stoical at this moment. Shut yourself up! shut yourself up, Rupert, and behave better when we next meet.”

  With her heart still beating joyously, and her cheeks flushed with emotion, Gertrude sought her father, and was not only most joyously welcomed, but highly complimented on her improved looks.

  “Vienna seems to have agreed with you, my dear child, still Better, if possible, than your own free native air. But I have no doubt, my beloved Gertrude, that with your peculiarly high-minded views respecting noble rank, and noble races, you must have felt in another sense, as if you were in native air. There is no capital in Europe where high birth so instantly finds its proper place, as in Vienna. No mistakes there, my dear; neither equipage, jewels, nor anything else that wealth can give, can stand in the place of high birth, at Vienna. I am sure you must have observed this with pleasure, my dear Gertrude.”

  “The Countess Adolphe was not very well, papa, and did not go much into society,” replied Gertrude.

  “I am sorry to hear it,” replied the baron, very solemnly. “Not that I mean to blame her,” he continued; “for her situation, probably, rendered it desirable that she should not fatigue herself. But it is probable, my dear Gertrude, that though she has allied herself to a family of very considerable distinction, she may not be herself aware of the real importance to the highest class of society in Vienna which your appearing among them would have been. You know what our alliances are, and have been, Gertrude, though this rather low-born young Englishwoman does not; and I cannot but think, my dear child, that you scarcely did justice to yourself, or to them, by remaining unknown among them.”

  “I did not think it would have been right, papa, for me to let her pass her evenings alone. I went to Vienna more for her sake than for that of the society I was likely to find there. Their being all personally strangers to me, would have made my going among them alone rather embarrassing to me.”

  “Perhaps you are right, Gertrude. Perhaps you are right.

  I can perfectly well imagine, that your feelings on the subject would have been very different, if I had been with you,” replied the baron. “You must have often felt that you wanted me, Gertrude.”

  “I can truly say, my dear father,” returned Gertrude, with a heightened colour, “that no single day has passed during my absence, in which I have not thought of you.”

  During the whole of this conversation, the hand of Gertrude had been fast locked in that of Madame Odenthal; but it was perfectly well understood in the family, that when the baron was holding a conversation with his daughter, he did not approve of its being interrupted or broken-in upon by any “member of his household,” which was a phrase that comprehended Madame, Odenthal and her son, as well as the footmen, waiting-maids, and grooms. But Gertrude now begged permission to retire, for the purpose of changing her dress, which she averred, would be a very great refreshment after so dusty a journey; and as Madame Odenthal very respectfully attended her, as a matter of course, the two friends soon found themselves clasped in each other’s arms.

  Madame Odenthal looked wistfully in the face of Gertrude, as if she longed to ask her a hundred questions; but instead of asking her any, she only threw her arms around her again, and pressed her to her heart.

  “And my father?” exclaimed Gertrude, after the pause of a moment; “tell me everything about him. Has he been constantly well? Has he, on the whole, been in tolerably good spirits since I left him?”

  “Indeed, I think I may very honestly answer yes,” replied Madame Odenthal. “His garden walks are certainly much shorter than they used to be, but with this one exception, I really think he is as well as I ever saw him. But come back with me this very moment, dearest Gertrude, or he will lose all the little patience he possesses.”

  The pleasure caused by the reunion between the father and daughter, seemed equal on both sides; and most assuredly, Gertrude had never before been so gay, so delightful a companion, as she was now; nor had her father ever before appeared to enjoy her society so much. But, nevertheless, it was a very obvious fact, that the Baron of Schwanberg was growing old, and it was fortunate both for him and his daughter also, that the daily intercourse between them and their Steinfeld neighbours seemed, by degrees, to become the only visiting they required, to make them perfectly happy. All the noble, but scanty, neighbourhood, of course, came to pay their compliments to the Baroness Gertrude on her return from the capital; nor was Lucy, notwithstanding her not very clearly understood English origin, welcomed home with less of cordial kindness; but when these visitings had been duly returned, and were then followed by dinner invitations from all the mansions within reach of them, it speedily became evident, that both the ladies had lost their taste for usual hospitalities. Nor is it, therefore, very extraordinary that they should both be accused of giving themselves airs of stateliness and superiority, in consequence of their three months’ sojourn in the metropolis.

  It was in vain that Gertrude pleaded her father’s increasing infirmities, which rendered his leaving his own arm-chair a painful effort to him; for there was scarcely a single individual in the whole neighbourhood who was not ready to testify and declare that he had never been better, or more fit for society in his life.

  Nor did Lucy and her stay-at-home husband fare at all better, when the former pleaded her daily increasing averseness to leaving her darling babies; and the latter ventured to confess that he had not courage to contest the point with her; so they were both accused of giving themselves intolerable airs, and of having been too much delighted with the dissipations of the capital, to retain any relish for the friendly hospitalities of the rural abode to which they had returned.

  Even the friendly Doctor Nieper, though the last man in the world to increase the circulation of an opinion so unfavourable to his friends, had very decidedly strengthened this impression.

  For one of the ladies of the neighbourhood wishing to ascertain, if possible, whether there was anything like truth and sincerity in the cause assig
ned by the Countess Adolphe von Steinfeld for staying at home, took an opportunity of asking the good doctor, whether these precious twin children were in any danger of following the one that she had lost; upon which he answered with the genuine satisfaction of a truly good-hearted man, that he was happy to say, that he had never, in his whole long life and practice, seen so magnificent a pair of twins. “Babies are always anxious joys,” he added, “and particularly so, it must be confessed, in the case of twins; but I certainly see no reason whatever to fear for the life of either of these, at present.”

  So it was agreed by general consent among the provincial aristocracy, that the two friends should be permitted to shut themselves up alternately in each other’s strongholds, as much as they liked.

  Nor did any of the individuals concerned repine at the fate thus allotted them. Nothing pleased the old baron better than having Lucy and the nursery transferred to Schloss Schwanberg; and as Gertrude became every day more and more averse to leave her father, it was there, for the most part, that the two united families might be said to live. The library, too, had its share in strengthening this arrangement. Gertrude had not left off buying books; and remote as they might seem to be from the scenes where human intelligence is the most actively at work, they were more completely au courant du jour than many who bustle about in the midst of them.

  CHAPTER LVI.

  THERE was not a single individual of the party who formed this isolated group, the baron and Madame Odenthal included, who would not have been ready to declare, if questioned on the subject, that “let but the same endure, they asked not aught beside.”

  But this same, natural, simple, and unambitious as it was, nevertheless, was not destined to endure long. The first distant sound that disturbed it came from Vienna, and reached them in the shape of a report that the Count von Steinfeld was immediately about to unite himself in the bonds of holy wedlock with the young and fair Countess Wilhelmina Carolina Rodolphina von Kronenstern.

  Then came a letter, written in the most affectionate style, from the Count himself, not only officially stating the same important fact, but adding thereunto the information that it was the intention of himself and his bride immediately to take up their abode at Schloss Steinfeld, which he earnestly requested might be made in every respect ready for their reception.

  Though Lucy’s prophecy had been at first considered as a joke, rumour had for some time been busy upon the same theme, so that the announcement of the fact did not take them by surprise; but, nevertheless, the quiet establishment was put into considerable confusion by the efforts made, by every part of it, to be, as directed, in all respects ready for the announced arrival of the bride-folks; and it was immediately felt by them all, that one of the two happy homes which of late had, in a great degree, been in common to the two families, could continue to be so no longer.

  But in order to make this inevitable change as little painful as possible, Madame Odenthal and Gertrude between them, contrived to prepare something so like a nursery for Lucy’s twins, as might render Schloss Schwanberg as much like a home to Adolphe and his wife as Schloss Steinfeld had ever been.

  And this precaution proved a very essential blessing to them all; for the gay Wilhelmina was much more disposed to remember that she was herself a young bride, than that her husband was a grandfather.

  The return of the Count himself to his own domain, in the character of a bridegroom, was, of course, a signal for a repetition of all the hospitalities by which that of his son, when under the same circumstances, had been welcomed rather more than two years before; but what had appeared very amusing to Lucy when she enacted the part of bride herself, assumed a very different aspect now.

  She and her beautiful sister had been welcomed almost like “foreign wonders;” and their bad French, and worse German, had been listened to, not only with indulgence, but, positively, with admiration. But now there was not a distinguished family in the neighbourhood that was not ready to avow its conviction, that a bride from Vienna was a much more valuable acquisition to the neighbourhood than it was possible a bride from London could be.

  As to Gertrude, the excuse afforded by the fact that her father no longer went into company... never, in truth, leaving the house except for a short drive in a close carriage, was exceedingly welcome; and her declining all invitations in order to avoid leaving him, was a fact almost forgotten amidst the unwonted gaieties of Schloss Steinfeld.

  And, assuredly, a more domestic partnership was never instituted than that which now united Gertrude and Lucy, under the hospitable roof of Schloss Schwanberg.

  Though the nursery of the twins, in the mansion of the bride, was not wholly deserted, it was very nearly so; for it was impossible deny the fact that Gertrude, Rupert, and the library, formed altogether an attraction that very decidedly overpowered that of all the festivities that were to be found elsewhere.

  The increasing infirmities of the baron began, however, to disturb the serenity with which this was enjoyed; and at length his strength failed him so completely, that he could no longer leave his room.

  But the master-passion failed not with his failing strength. While supported in his arm-chair, and then upon his sofa, and at last, when stretched upon his bed, his head, or heart, or whatever the seat of pride might be, still remained true to the feeling that had predominated throughout his life.

  “Remember, my beloved Gertrude,” he said, re-said, and said again, at least a score of times before his death—” remember that my obsequies must be in most respects, I think I might with propriety say IN ALL, totally distinct, and different, from those of inferior persons.”

  “Tour instructions, my dearest father,” she tearfully replied, “shall be exactly obeyed in every respect.”

  “I know it, my beloved child!” he replied again and again to the oft-repeated words, but never as if he thought that his injunctions could be given, or her obedience promised, too often. “I know it, my noble-minded daughter! You will never suffer your sorrow for our comparatively short separation to interfere with your performance of the duties which will devolve upon you at my death. Our opinions upon all points connected with our exalted station are, and ever have been, so exactly the same, my dear child, that, I confess to you, I consider your having remained thus long unmarried, as an especial dispensation of Providence. Had any reigning prince, or nobleman of the very highest rank, solicited your hand, Gertrude, it was more than probable that you might, by necessity, have been absent from me at this very important moment.” —

  “I am, indeed, thankful, my dearest father,” she replied, “that I have formed no connection which should oblige me to leave you! Let me but understand your wishes, and be certain that I will obey them.”

  “I have still much to say to you,” he solemnly replied; “and I would wish our good Madame Odenthal to prepare me some restorative which I may take, from time to time, while I am giving you my final instructions. I would spare you the fatigue of listening to directions which must, of necessity, be long, and which you may feel, also, to be melancholy, my dear child; I would willingly spare you this, if I could, and make our good Rupert the executor of my last wishes. But we know, my dear love, that the sort of intellect necessary for the full comprehension of such a subject, is not to be looked for in any class inferior to our own. People of high station, my Gertrude, ought to live for posterity their manners, and habits of life, being the only safe standard by which those who come after them can be modelled. Nor is this all that we are bound to do for posterity; we ought not only to live, but to die also, in such a manner as may serve as an example for those who follow us.”

  Tho good old man had been so accustomed, through his whole life, to utter long harangues, that he had, like many extemporary preachers, acquired a habit of pausing, as if to give his hearers time to digest what he had said; and this skilful pause enabled him now to proceed, though in a voice considerably lower than usual.

  “I have a high opinion of Rupert,” he resumed;
“indeed, I have a very high opinion of him. I think his abilities must be quite out of the common way, considering the rank in which he was born; but, nevertheless, my dear Gertrude, I do not believe him to be at all more capable of comprehending my wishes on this important subject than of managing an army, or of ruling a kingdom. My wish is...” — but here he became so evidently exhausted, that Gertrude, in her capacity of nurse, insisted upon his taking a little refreshment, and, if possible, of composing himself, and endeavouring to sleep for a few moments, before he proceeded with his instructions, which, as he himself very justly observed, were only the more fatiguing in their delivery, because he was so deeply conscious of their importance.

  * * * * *

  Meanwhile, a very different scene was going on at Schloss Steinfeld.

  After having been exhibited in her bridal attire, at every mansion within visiting reach in the neighbourhood, the sprightly “Wilhelmina made it clearly understood by her handsome bridegroom, that it was her inclination, wish, purpose, and intention, to give a series of fêtes at Schloss Steinfeld, which should prove most satisfactorily to all the world that she was not unworthy of the flattering reception which she had met in the neighbourhood.

  Nor did the handsome bridegroom appear in the least degree averse to this gay project; and hospitable preparations of all kinds were accordingly commenced with great zeal from the garrets of the old mansion to its cellar, both inclusive.

  But, unfortunately, the neighbourhood, though on the whole very respectably aristocratic, was somewhat too widely scattered to be convenient for such an object, and in many cases, the personages with whom the ambitious young bride most eagerly sought intimacy, resided at too great a distance to permit their returning home after a ball; and therefore, whenever a ball, or even a sociable little waltzing party, was given by the dance-loving Wilhelmina, the garrets of Schloss Steinfeld were to be put in requisition as well as its cellars.